Did I Mention I Kill With A Kiss?
by ilosttheimpalainthetardis
Summary: Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak are both normal people. Well, you know, other than the fact that they kill people for fun. Being world famous, they finally notice each other. That's when they start flirting. Over cameras, over messages carved into victims. But what if they aim for the same target: Sam Wesson? Rated M for language and violent killings. Destiel, some Sabriel
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Hey again! Sorry for those who're wondering about It All Started With That Cup, I'm working on it, but this distracted me... Prompt on tumblr got me thinking, and this came out! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, or Supernatural. Kripke gets the copyright. Uh huh. **

* * *

Dean Winchester was normal once, you know. Until his abusive father got to become too much for the 16-year-old and his mother, and he ended up taking a stand and killing him. Taking the old Colt 1911 that he liked to use when shooting cans for practice, and shot his dad in the head. And turns out? He liked it. He liked the feeling of life and death in his hands. As his mother stared on in horror, Dean had dragged John Winchester out of the door and into the woods, where he burned him and scattered his ashes. When he got back to the house, covered in dirt, blood, and other undesirable substances on him, his mother had already left.

After washing up, he grabs a bag and packs up as well. Grabbing his laptop, he phones the cops, letting a mechanical voice list the address, and he takes the keys to his father's Impala, and leaves. It all seemed a bit rushed, but Dean knew what would happen if he stayed. He would be blamed, and he would likely be carted off to serve a sentence. So after giving one more fond glance over the place, he grabs his stuff and shoves it all in the Impala. He takes most of his father's weaponry as well. Who knew when he could need it again? Pumping AC/DC, he heads north, towards South Dakota. Bobby Singer lived there, and he knew he could always depend on Bobby.

Bobby was an old friend of John's, but never approved of his drunken behavior. Sometimes Dean and Mary would stay there when John got too rowdy, hiding for sometimes weeks at a time. Bobby knew what they went through, and always offered to let them stay for more time when they were about to leave again, but Mary always declined, even though Dean dreamed of just staying with Bobby forever, never having to face his father again. His drunk father. His father who was full of whiskey and anger. He would drink until he was angry, and he would drink more to get angrier. It was a never ending cycle of pain for his family.

Mary used to talk about when John Winchester was such a wonderful man. So nice, and sweet. Mary remembered that the only thing that might have enough importance to him that it could surpass Mary- the Impala. John loved that car. And he was so full of life, so full of energy. He charmed Mary's parents, charmed Mary, and so they got married. She often used to say that they were so deeply in love that when he started drinking, her heart broke. It hurt so much, remembering that day. She would never tell Dean, but the day that John started drinking was the worst of her life.

* * *

Mary had just gone over to their neighbor, Sarah Wills, and brought over an apple pie. Sarah's husband had gone missing and had been reported so for three days. Sarah was trying to cope, but Mary tried to help in whatever way she could. Bringing over pies, talking to Sarah, praying for David, her husband. John never understood her utter kindness to others. John was the type of neighbor that would maybe send something over with their condolences, and then leave them alone for the rest of time.

Mary felt sorry for Sarah. She remembered when her father, Samuel, had left for a year in service for the army. She and her mother waited in fear, afraid for Samuel. When he came back, she remembers the jubilation. When John left for the Navy, she had waited. Waiting, anticipating every message, praying to God that it wouldn't say the fatal words that would announce him truly gone. After his service, she had laughed with joy, crying with relief. Mary was still scared, for the day that Dean would head off to serve in the army, Navy, or just leave home. Mary's waits were different though. She knew that he would come back, whether in a letter or in person. Sarah didn't have that benefit. After having Sarah cry on her shoulder for an hour, and letting Mary feed her some pie, Mary finally headed home.

"John? Sweetheart, I'm home," she called out, unlocking the front door, wiping her shoes and stepping in. There wasn't an answer to her call, so she repeated his name, wondering where he was. "John? Where are you?" As she walked into the kitchen, she saw John. With a bottle of whiskey that he had magicked from nowhere. He was clearly drunk, face as rosy as a clown's.

"Mary? Is that you?" Mary nodded. John almost never drank, so what was he doing? Thankful that Dean was asleep Mary walked towards her husband, and takes the whiskey from him. "Wait! I need that," John looked a little helpless, so Mary handed it back to him. But he was so drunk that his hand slipped, and dropped the bottle. His face turned a shade of red that resembled a cherry. "Now look what you did! You clumsy bitch!" He was shouting now, and Mary had never heard him like this, ever.

"It's alright, I can clean it up. Don't worry. You just sit back, and relax," Mary used a calming voice, the one she used when Dean threw a tantrum. Taking a towel, she starts to scrape the glass up, careful not to cut herself.

"It's not alright! You keep doing this, hitting things, knocking them over. When we first met, that was the first thing I noticed. Clumsy, annoying, off balance. Everything I never looked for in a woman. In fact, I don't know why I ever married you! You just squander our money and supplies on others. Baking pies, giving everything that we could need someday away!" He was ranting, and every word tore at Mary like a razor cutting into her soul.

He kept yelling, and wouldn't stop. Just kept screaming, cutting at Mary emotionally, until Mary cut herself. It was an accident of course, but while she was scooping up the glass, she had been cut on accident. The sight of blood seemed to stabilise John, and he realized what he had been yelling at her.

"Oh my God. Mary, I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened. I just found a bottle of whiskey, and thought of my days as a Seal, and I just..." Here his voice trails off, and he knows that there's nothing that he can say that can make it better. He pulled her tight into his arms, and whispered, "It'll never happen again, I promise. I promise," Mary felt better after this, and she just breathed his promises in.

But promises are meant to be broken, aren't they?

* * *

Only stopping occasionally to refuel and for food, Dean stops in the bigger cities along the way. He stays in Omaha for a few nights, picking pockets and committing fraud illegal in, oh, say, 50 states and most of the rest of the world. Then he heads towards an alley, a very particular one. After knocking twice, and saying the words "Mother Mary pray for us all," a man with a slight limp opens the door.

His mouth splitting into a half toothed grin, he hugs Dean, asking, "You John Winchester's boy?" Dean nods, and the man smiles wider, if that would be humanly possible.

"I killed him. And now I need cover. I can get you three credit cards, I'm pretty sure they've got at least a thousand or two. Enough to last you a while, right?" The grin doesn't slip off of the man's face. He just smiles happily, and nods.

"Boy, you are John Winchester's spawn, aren't you?" The nutty old man heads over to his "lab", and pulls out a camera. Dragging Dean over to a white backdrop, he snaps a photo. Telling Dean to wait near the door, it takes him little over half an hour to come up with three new identities for Dean, all slightly altered in some way or another. He is now James Borderlance, Ardel Jayson, and Gray Harding. James is 20, Ardel is 19, and Gray is 20. They're all from Nebraska, albeit from different small towns. James is an orphan, Ardel was brought up by his grandparents because of parental abuse, and Gray lived a white picket fence life, leaving it for the big city. The rest of the details were up to Dean. Trading three of the cards he had taken for the three ID's, he thanks Arnold, the man, and leaves. Even though Dean's only sixteen, he doesn't want anyone to recognize him.

Walking out of the dingy place, he steps over puddles of grime and who knows what. Then he saw the couple. The man was leaning in a threatening stance over the girl. The girl looked scared, intimidated by the size of the man. Dean felt sorry for the girl, and headed towards them. When the girl sees him, her eyes grow larger with fear. The air is permeated with it, and the guy glares at Dean.

"Get your own ride," he sneers, and Dean has had enough of his cockeyed attitude.

"Pick your fights carefully. I'm not someone you want to mess with," Dean's voice was low with menace, but the idiot didn't get the message.

"What're you gonna do, bitch-slap me?" He scoffs. That's when Dean delivers a nice right hook. Then he aims a kick at the man's solar plexus, and sees him crumple at contact. Dean can see the fear in the man's eyes as he crouches down to where he is on the ground. Smiling grotesquely, he pulls out a jack-knife, and starts to cut the man. He struggles, but Dean has him pinned. Carving intricate designs into his arm, the man starts to shriek. Nobody around the area thinks much of it. After all, it was an alley next to a bar, wasn't it?

After Dean's toyed around with the man enough, he slits his throat quickly, bored of the little entertainment he could squeeze from the man. It did make him feel good though. The feel of knowing he wouldn't terrorize another innocent girl. Wouldn't hurt anyone else. Standing up, Dean kicks the body towards the Dumpster in the back, and sees the girl, still paralyzed at the wall. She had been about to thank her savior, but after he killed her captor? That had her frozen to the spot. What if she was next?

"Run," is all he says. She doesn't need further warning. She sprints out of the alley, holding her heels in her hand, running barefoot through the city. It probably wasn't the best idea to leave her be, but he didn't have much choice anymore. She was gone. Satisfied that he'd saved a girl from rape, he goes into the bar through the back door, and heads quickly to the restrooms. He stays in the shadows, away from prying eyes to see his hands soaked in the blood of the other man. Cleaning up, he moves back to the Impala, with his dinner in his hands. Polishing off the burger, he heads back onto the road. Moving towards Bobby again.

* * *

By the time that the cops find the body after the guy's buddies go looking for him and find him dead in the alley, Dean's already long gone. He'd gone into another state. Dean had carved one word into the man's chest though; a memento that showed that Dean Winchester had been there. Dean had carved a pentagram, like the ones that he'd found everywhere in the house a long time ago, into the man's chest. Nobody understood it. And nobody would. Until a decade or so later, when Dean became known as the Star Killer, named for the pentagram he would mark his victims with. Until then? Well, it would be a mystery, wouldn't it? Just like everything else.

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**Author's Note: Okay, so how'd you like it? The next chapter is gonna be about Castiel and how he started killing, so yeah. I doubt anyone would want to read this, but I'll just keep updating, kay? A review a day keeps the crack away!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hi, I'm back! There's some swearing in this chapter, so just keep an eye out. Cas starts killing in this one, and leaves his first message for Dean... :) So, enjoy!**

* * *

Since he was a child, Castiel Novak had always been told the importance of faith. The importance of loving God. The importance of prayer. Of confession. Of repentance. Of obedience. Of religion.

But the thing about people is that they grow up. And Castiel grew up with siblings. With Naomi, the older sister who bullied him. With Michael, the oldest, the one that their parents loved the most. With Luke, the troublemaker. Anna, the dreamer. Balthazar, the playboy. Gabriel, the jokester. And Castiel. The youngest. The one who everyone looked down upon. The timid one.

For a decade of Castiel's life, he was taught to respect his religion, to pray, to go to church, to go to Sunday school. Castiel grew to love God so much that his siblings called him an "angel". They all were though. Angels, that is. They had all been named after angels, even Luke and Anna. But the thing was that Castiel had never truly been obedient. He had always been different, capable of free thought. His siblings all obeyed their father unthinkingly, loyal to a man who abused them without batting an eyelash.

Oh yes, abused. Physically to the elders, but to Anna, Balthazar and Castiel, he would traumatize them. Forcing them to watch while he cut into Luke, into Gabriel. Watch as he would punch Michael until he screamed for mercy. Forced to see Gabriel try to laugh afterwards, try to just take a breath, laugh with his siblings. To look on as Naomi would snort the stash of cocaine within the panel in the wall behind her desk.

Anna would cry. Silently, she would shake under her blankets. Only six years old, and forced to see her elder siblings hurt like that? It would turn you into a shell. Anna didn't even have her own ideas yet. She was already empty. Even though she didn't know it yet, she had been rebellious at first, like Castiel would be someday. She remembers the first time that she saw her father actually hurt Michael. It scared her so much, so much that the memory was somewhere in a dark corner where she never thought of it again.

* * *

"Dad, are you okay?"

"Hey, Michael! Come over here, boy," His voice had a type of lisp to it, like hearing his voice through a thin net of glass or a mesh of wire. Anna was on the staircase, watching through the bars attached to the railing. She was about to go downstairs to greet her father with her customary squeal and hug, but was stopped by her father's behavior.

"Dad?" Her father was unresponsive to Michael's query, eyes blank and vacant.

"Michael, tell me, what was your score on the math test?" her father asked. It was an odd question by any standards, but Michael answered nevertheless, to sate his father's odd curiosity.

"I got a B-, Dad," It was odd for Michael to get any score lower than an A, but Math had always been his worst subject. Then their father started to scream.

"Michael? A B-? What are you, stupid? Tell me boy, do you know your multiplication tables? Do you know anything?!" Her father was yelling now. Yelling about how utterly boorish and dense Michael is. He grabs a beer bottle that neither Anna or Michael had noticed, and he smashes it against a table. Taking the broken glass, he throws it at Michael, aiming well, even though he's drunk. He nearly hits Michael's eye with the glass that he hurls, and Michael tries to duck.

His face is dark. Horrible. Angry. And all that pure emotion is directed at Michael.

"Idiot boy! Stupid bastard! You are a fucking disgrace, and I always ask myself why I have you in the first place! Even Luke is better than you, at least he knows how to pickpocket and make some money, but you! You're too stupid to know anything, anything!" His rants don't end. Michael just stands there, taking it in. He knows that his father would sober up eventually. Eventually.

Honestly? Michael doesn't know what to do. His face is blank, wiped of any emotion. All he does is try to avoid the glass that his father is still throwing. But Michael isn't fast enough, and in the end, the majority of the glass is embedded into the carpet, but at least five shards of glass are stuck into his arms and legs. Then everything stops.

Their father had passed out, and it as a relief. Michael goes to the kitchen, and cleans himself up, wincing when he applies some alcohol to disinfect the wounds. Gently, he pulls out seven slivers out of his body, and bandages each one up. They should heal by the end of the week, but until then he's going to have to wear a jacket and jeans, even though it's the middle of the summer, and it's too hot. But what else could he do?

Anna was horrified. She ran back upstairs, into the room that she shared with Naomi, and jumped into Naomi's bed, snuggling close to her. Naomi shifted in her sleep, pulling Anna close. It was the beginning of much pain in the family, for everyone.

But there was one person on the scene that Anna never knew about. Nor Michael, or their father.

Castiel had gone downstairs earlier, to look for Michael, maybe for a bedtime story, maybe for a hug. He can't even remember anymore. But Michael wasn't there, although his father was. Unconscious, but Castiel didn't want Daddy to know he was out of bed, so he hid in a cupboard. Being small for a five year old, he fit, but he didn't know what to do. All he could do was watch as the obscenities in front of him played out. By the end, Castiel was shaking with fear, and once he saw Michael head into the kitchen, he ran upstairs as fast as his legs could carry him, and rushed to Gabriel for reassurance that there was still someone out there. Castiel was still shaking, holding on to Gabriel like a kitten to its mother, hiding from the world.

* * *

Anna grew up empty, but Castiel grew up shy. Quiet. Afraid.

So they thought.

When Castiel was 12, he realized how religious he was, and started seeing the local minister about becoming a priest. When he was sixteen, he noticed that when someone used God's name in vain, he got irritated. Seventeen? Well, he punched someone in the face after they insulted is faith. And when he was twenty... We'll just say that it wasn't pretty. The cops found Jerry Parker stabbed to death after being whipped mercilessly. There were five stab wounds, fourteen lashes to the back, and a cross carved above his sternum.

Nobody ever suspected Castiel. He was the shy, nice boy that everyone knew. To his siblings, he was the one that would never stand up for anyone, not even himself. What could ever bring him to kill someone? They only knew how religious he was, and there was a little discussion over the cross in Jerry's chest, but didn't God say that killing was wrong? How could he do that? So they accused their father. The man who loved his religion so much he would hurt anyone for it. He would raise his children to become soldiers, to never show emotion. They had never been his children; they had been his garrison.

But since he was a fanatic, he was accused of murder. After his trial, he was sentenced to a life sentence, and his children were free. Free of a tyranny that lasted a lifetime. Michael had left as soon as he turned eighteen. He'd earned a scholarship to Princeton, became a lawyer, got married, had a kid. The white picket fence life he'd always wanted, but could never have with his father around.

Naomi was in jail for dealing drugs. Her five year sentence was nearly over, but she was likely to start again once she was out. Gabriel had bought his own sweet shop, and was happy that he was away from home. He loved the children that visited, the happy smiles on their faces when they left. It made him feel better to know that he could help some people.

Luke was gone. Nobody knew where he was, and that was how he liked it. Balthazar had become rich, being the businessman of the family. He'd worked in a cubicle for a month or so, quickly rising to manager, and then to Director of Sales, then CEO. It was all so fast, the right word here, a favor there, and he was at the top. Anna was in a mental institution, where she was trying to deal with hallucinations of their father.

And Castiel? He was traveling through America, doing odd jobs. Usually he would stay in a town for a month or so to raise some money as their local priest, and leave, using the money to just hop from town to town.

At least, that was what he told his brothers and sisters. The truth was that he would look for those unfaithful, and kill them, just like Jerry Parker. He didn't care about those who weren't Christian. God would punish them later on. But those with their stupid and close-minded views? He thought of himself as an avenging angel, smiting all those who did not truly understand God's message. A killer known as the Cross was now journeying across America. Nobody ever thought it was Castiel. He covered his tracks well, and it wasn't until another six years that he let his image slip to the police. Of course, they could never catch him. He wanted people to understand who he was, and what he did.

For a few years, he was known as the Cross Killer, or just the Cross. Then he got bored, and started looking for new sources of entertainment, and found another killer who only killed specific people. Those who harmed others would be tracked down by the Pentagram Killer. When the Pentagram let a video camera capture him, Castiel wondered whether the two of them were actually that different. They were making the world better, weren't they? So at his last killing, he'd left a slip of paper on the floor, with a simple pentagram drawn on it, with a smiley face beside it. He knew that the Pentagram would find it.

* * *

**Author's Note: Okay, that took forever! Now, who wants to give a review? Reviews, reviews? Please? No?**

**Okay. I'll just wait here. **

**Tapping feet. **

**Oh, you're back! A review? Really? That's great! There's a box right down there... Yup, that's the one! Great! (Now I can update sooner)**


	3. Chapter 3

Hello all followers, I am extremely sorry. I have updated, but not with a story, and you may hate me for that. I am sorry. I have made a decision, and it is to discontinue this fic and all of the rest I have written. I am not very good with characters that someone else has already created, and would rather write my own stories. You can follow any of my original stories at FictionPress, and these two will be discontinued. I am truly sorry, but this kind of writing isn't cut out for me. My FictionPress page is u/918359/

Thanks to all for reading at least a part of a not so good story. Goodbye, or perhaps welcome to my world of crazy people.


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